“Only rats in plenty—the kitchen was black wid ’em—and them as big as rabbits.”
“Rats like rabbits—but nothing more? Come, now, Mrs. Pil; surely someone has seen a ghost—try and remember, and I’ll give you a nice little present. I do love to hear of horrors.”
“Well, then, Fanny Lappage, since you are so set on and eager, I did hear summat—summat as was told me by the folk as was here afore us—and left.”
“Did they see anything? Oh, Jim!” beckoning to Hegan, “and Rosie, Ethel, and George and Tom—do come along and listen—it’s awful fun. Mrs. Pil is going to tell us about the ghost that’s here—she will make our flesh creep. Won’t it be lovely!”
“I’m not so sure,” muttered Jim, turning to Mrs. Pilcher. “What’s it all about, mother?”
Mrs. Pilcher appreciated an audience; she wiped her mouth deliberately with a spotted handkerchief, rubbed her hands on her knees, nodded at the circle which had gathered about her, and cleared her throat.
“You all know the old wing—the long passage, and the swing-door?”
There was a chorus of “Yes, yes, yes—why, to be sure!”
“The three big low rooms looking south over the shrubberies and into the park—main old, they say—well, it’s there!” and she paused dramatically. Mrs. “Pil” was a gifted story-teller. “Afore our time” (she spoke as if they had been deposed sovereigns) “the caretaker and wife and girl lived in that wing, as it were warm and convenient. They allowed they heard walking and talking, but were never properly frightened, till one hot summer night when the man was late in the village. There was a full moon, and it was that stifling they had the doors and windows open—’twas the middle room, d’ye see? Mother and girl was a-making ready for bed, and the house locked up. All of a sudden they fell in a terrible taking, a sort of fright as threw ’em into a cold sweat—and they could not say for why, or wherefore; but hot as it was, they felt like two blocks of ice. Then they heard the swing-door slam, and someone in high heels come a-pattering along the passage—nearer and nearer. There it must be in the doorway, for the floor had a loose board and creaked. They was awful afraid to look, as they knew in their bones something not right was standin’ there, and yet look they had to! And sure enough, right on the creakin’ board was a lady in a queer, puffed-out sort of dress, awful old-fashioned. She had a long, shiny knife in her hand, and they two felt turned to stone. At the moment they heard the man below shoutin’ for the key of the side door, and the wife had just strength to tie it in her apron and throw it out of the window. Then the lady went off; they heard her a-patterin’ quick down the passage, and the swing-door a-slammin’ behind her. After that, they lived down below—but never saw her again, nor ever give her a chance, as they did not venture above after dusk. They say she had black eyes and looked awful wicked—just set on ill-doing, but young, and handsome. When the man died—he was found dead, they do say—the wife and daughter come away and were thankful—and we took the place; but if it was my last breath, though I heard what I heard—I never saw nothing!”
“And so it’s the middle room in the old wing,” said Fanny briskly. “I know—it has a high chimney-piece and three windows.”